


like my mirror years ago

by MermaidMarie



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Bittersweet, Childhood, Gen, Growing Up, Pre-Canon, the soft heartache of childhood pets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-31
Updated: 2019-05-31
Packaged: 2020-04-05 06:26:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19042975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MermaidMarie/pseuds/MermaidMarie
Summary: In which Eliot Waugh finds a litter of kittens in the barn.





	like my mirror years ago

**Author's Note:**

> I really, genuinely meant to make this more heart-warming than it ended up being. I just have a lot of feelings about childhood pets.

The cats that lived at the farm weren’t exactly pets. Most of them weren’t even that friendly.

They lived in the barn and hunted the mice and kept to themselves. Eliot’s father had no real opinions on the cats. They were useful enough, and they rarely caused any problems. He largely ignored their presence. Eliot’s older brothers, as per usual, followed their father’s lead. Eliot’s mother’s only opinion about the cats was _not in the house._

Eliot, for his part, liked to sit with them on nice days. Most of them never wanted to be pet, but if you settled into the grass, they’d come sit with you. Just stretched out nearby, not quite looking at you, but keeping you in their peripheral vision just in case.

Eliot could appreciate that kind of skeptical camaraderie. He identified more with it than with the unconditional loyalty of his father’s dogs, in any case. The dogs were nice and all, but he wasn’t sure how much their love meant to him if they _also_ loved his father.

The cats, on the other hand, didn’t seem to love any of the humans. They allowed Eliot to exist near them, though, with no specific judgement aimed at him. It was a nice change of pace. Sure, the cats weren’t exactly his _friends._ But they were better than the people.

It was just nice to be around some creatures that weren’t demanding anything from Eliot. Weren’t expecting him to be someone he wasn’t.

Eliot was fourteen when it happened.

There had been a fight that night—for once, Eliot wasn’t involved. It was between the second oldest of the four sons and their father. Something about wanting to go to California for college—Eliot didn’t stick around to find out. There was a lot of screaming, some throwing of plates, a couple threats.

Normal night at the Waugh manor, naturally.

Whatever. If it didn’t involve Eliot, he didn’t need to be there for the chaos.

So he ended up in the loft of the barn, where they stored much of the food they’d need for the animals in winter.

It was also where many of the farm cats slept, in the corners, in piles of hay and old, threadbare blankets.

There was one cat Eliot recognized, in the far corner.

She was one of the friendlier ones. This pudgy black and white thing, with big yellow eyes. Eliot had tentatively named her Hester, since he’d been in the middle of pretending to read _The Scarlet Letter_ for his English class when she showed up. When he’d been leaning against the tree outside, she’d curled up next to him, purring. He hadn’t risked petting her, but she was a comforting presence.

Now, however, she looked far more apprehensive.

Eliot was, frankly, slightly hurt. She’d seemed to trust him before, but somehow, he was less trustworthy in the barn? Fickle girl.

He became less offended when he noticed _why_ she was staring at him.

She was curled up around four tiny lumps.

“If I move closer, will you freak out?” he asked lightly.

Hester did not answer.

“Alright, well, I’m gonna, okay? It’s been a long day, and it’s been months since we’ve had kittens. I just want to look, I promise.”

Hester still didn’t answer. She was, after all, a cat.

Eliot shifted closer.

He considered it a tentative victory that she didn’t hiss, flinch, or growl. That was how the cats all tended to react to his brothers, so at least she knew it was _him._ She wasn’t purring either, though.

He stopped a few feet away, settling onto his knees as he peered into her little nest.

Four little lumps, he’d counted correctly.

Two little black and white ones, like their mother, one little orange tabby, and a calico.

“Now, Hester, I might not have _read_ the book, but I did attend class,” Eliot said conversationally. “And it seems you’ve taken your name to heart. Where is your husband?”

He made a show of peering around, but the only other farm cat in the loft was the very, very old gray tabby with half an ear.

“I’m pretty sure she’s a girl,” Eliot said. He glanced back at Hester. “Not that _I’m_ judging if you swing that way or anything, but that’s not how reproduction works.”

He chuckled a little at his own joke. How could _he_ judge? Everyone had known about _him_ longer than he’d known.

“Well, anyway, that’s okay. If their father isn’t in the picture, I’ll happily step in,” Eliot told her, very solemnly. “The children need a strong male role model, after all.”

Hester blinked at him, slow and gentle.

Eliot didn’t know a lot about cats, but he’d picked up on some physical cues. Blinking meant they felt safe. He relaxed a little, feeling warm, sliding forward a bit and sitting cross-legged in front of her. At the movement, she’d tensed again, going back to skeptical. But Eliot just smiled.

“It’s okay,” he said. He offered her the same slow, gentle blink. “I’m safe, I promise.”

 

He didn’t try to touch her or the kittens that night. He just sat with them, talking in a low, soothing voice until she’d settled and started purring the way she did when she’d curl up with him in the sun.

He didn’t tell his parents or his brothers about the kittens—what would they care, anyway? And he _really_ didn’t need them to have another reason to point to why he was _different._ He’d just complete his chores with the same amount of quiet compliance as usual when he didn’t want to cause any trouble, and he’d slip away whenever he could.

He brought Hester little treats when he could. Bits of leftover chicken, some turkey. He’d bring string cheese up there and share it with her. Once, he’d managed to bring a little dish of cream, which she’d been very pleased by.

 

It was about a week before he touched her.

She was nibbling on the little bit of cheese he’d given her.

He wasn’t exactly _planning_ on trying to pet her, but her ears looked so soft.

He reached out tentatively, brushing two fingers against her.

Immediately, she stopped her nibbled and pressed her head up against his hand, purring so loudly he could feel the vibrations in the creaky wood they were settled on.

“Oh,” he said, surprised. He would never admit to this—god, it was _embarrassing—_ but he actually started tearing up at how immediately she’d accepted his affection.

She abandoned the cheese on the floor, jumping up, her tail upright, curled at the tip like a question mark. She trilled, trotting the few steps over to him and curling up, pressed against his leg. Gently, still hesitant like she might run or scratch at any moment, he pet her ear and rubbed his thumb along her cheek.

“Well, if I’d _known_ you were so tame, I would’ve pet you sooner,” he murmured, stroking her head. “Forgive me, the cats around here tend to be a little more feral. I wonder where _you_ came from.”

Hester didn’t answer.

The kittens were piled on top of one another in the nest, completely asleep, with their little pink mouths slightly open.

 

A few days later, the orange kitten was the first one to start to open his eyes.

The two black and white kittens were next, and the little calico kitten was last.

When all of their eyes were open, Eliot politely asked Hester if he could pet them.

“I mean, I _am_ their father, after all,” he told her, logically. “It’s only fair.”

She purred at him, which he took as the mother’s consent.

She barely watched as he reached forward, scratching at the orange kitten’s chin. The little kitten first hissed (which was truly, truly pitiful) and then almost immediately transitioned into purring.

Eliot laughed. “Mercurial little thing,” he said. “Pretty easy to win over, though, aren’t you?”

The little thing purred in agreement.

His kitten-soft fur felt right against Eliot’s hands. In a way that nothing else on the farm ever did.

 

It was another few days until Eliot worked up the courage to pick one of the kittens up.

The orange kitten seemed the bravest, so he started with him.

The kitten squirmed against his palm and chewed on his fingers, happily purring the whole time.

“I’m no good at naming things,” Eliot told Hester. “Perhaps you should do it.”

She purred in response. Which Eliot didn’t think _quite_ worked as a name—besides, they needed _four_ names, and he didn’t know how to spell the sound Hester was making.

And he really needed to stop calling the two black and white ones Cow 1 and Cow 2.

“Is calling the orange one Simba too cliché? What do you think, Hester?”

Hester purred.

Simba it was, he supposed.

It took a couple more weeks to settle on names for the rest of the kittens. Eliot felt he needed to get to know them all a little before he could truly name them—Simba just had that orange fur and that silly little hiss like in the movie, so. He was easy.

 

The smaller black and white kitten was next.

When they were all around four weeks old, they’d gotten to the unruly age. Hester seemed genuinely tired the way that moms were. The moment Eliot would arrive, she’d leave the nest to go sleep on one of the shelves where the kittens couldn’t get her. She’d give Eliot a look like, _finally, you’re here,_ and Eliot would apologize for keeping her waiting.

Eliot had looked it up, and four weeks was about when the kittens were supposed to get wet food. They never fed any of the farm cats, really, since they weren’t pets. So Eliot _may_ have gone to the pet store in town and stolen a couple cans for the kittens.

When he opened the can, the little black and white kitten practically fell over from the noise. And then he kept jumping backwards, spitting when Eliot tried to offer the food to him.

Eliot named him Courage, like in that _Cowardly Dog_ show. He did have a thing for ironic naming.

 

The other black and white kitten’s name was only a few days later.

When he was about to climb the ladder to the loft, she’d gotten over-excited and tumbled over the edge. Eliot had caught her, his heart pounding in his ears. He’d scolded her as she purred contently in his arms.

He named her Wendy, remembering the scene from _Peter Pan_ when Wendy Darling fell from the sky to the lost boys.

 

The calico kitten went the longest without a name.

Now, Eliot would not _admit_ to having a favorite child, per se, but there was something special about the little calico kitten. She had these big, round eyes that seemed to see through him. She didn’t play as much as her sweet, clumsy siblings. She had this bored, detached air—she seemed like she’d lived many past lives, as the cat of queens and rich widows in mysterious mansions, and she was above such things.

Essentially, she seemed grander than this place. Like she belonged in a much more exciting, much more beautiful world.

Eliot could relate to that.

While the other kittens played, and Hester napped, the little calico would just sit with Eliot, gazing up at him with opaque, unblinking eyes. As all the kittens eyes changed from the baby blue, hers became this strange, deep golden brown color.  

Eliot _adored_ her. No name seemed good enough.

Until a couple of his female friends dragged him to see _She’s the Man_ at the rundown little movie theater in the next town over.

Eliot couldn’t say whether it was a good movie, or even really whether he _liked_ it. That wasn’t the point. The point was that there was something about the movie that made him feel a little less alone—something about watching it that gave him some nameless level of comfort.

It helped that he could justify liking this _chick movie_ to his father and brothers by talking about how _hot_ Amanda Bynes was—no mention of the fact that he liked her better dressed as a boy.

After seeing the movie, he decided to call the calico kitten Viola. It was a Shakespearean name, after all, and she was a classy kitten.

“Viola,” he tried gently. She just stared. “Is that okay with you?”

She didn’t purr much, quite unlike her mother. Hester would purr if Eliot so much as made eye contact. Simba and Wendy, too.

Courage was a _little_ more standoffish, but he, too, purred often, though a little more anxiously.

Viola would greet Eliot at the top of the ladder with a single meow and then remain mostly silent as she sat next to him, poised as anything.

She made him feel safer, oddly. Like she was guarding him as she stood beside him like a statue, watching the other kittens with him. Sometimes, Simba would bound over, trying to play, and Viola would barely react, except to look mildly offended by the idea.

Eliot brought her treats near daily, spoiled her with chicken and cream and string cheese. She also, as it turned out, really liked bread, so he brought her that, too. After consulting the internet to make sure it was safe enough.

 

They were about eight weeks old when they figured out how to climb down the ladder into the barn.

Eliot had nearly had a heart attack when he got there and saw Viola waiting for him right outside the door.

She chirped once as approached, getting to her feet. Her tail had that question-mark curl that her mother’s always had.

Eliot wasn’t exactly a _fan_ of the idea that they were all roaming free now. While he’d never paid quite this much attention to the rest of the farm cats, he noticed in passing how they would come and go. How some would wander off, how he’d stop seeing them around.

The mere thought of it stressed him out with these cats.

 

At farms, Eliot learned that animals would come and go. There was an impermanence to them. They were always surrounded by animals—his father’s dogs, his mother’s chickens, the couple of cows they kept, the one donkey. His family, for all their faults, really did love the animals. But it was understood that you didn’t get _attached_ to the animals.

Eliot’s cats were different. He wanted them to be special.

It wasn’t unusual for them to give away some of the kittens that were born on the farm, so all it took was a casual comment to his mother for Eliot to arrange it.

There was a girl at school that Eliot was sort of friends with, in that held-at-arms-length way that Eliot _had_ friends. She was shy, and a little awkward. She used to talk to him about these books she read about cats until she’d gotten made fun of liking them one too many times and stopped carrying them in her schoolbag. Eliot mentioned the kittens to her in passing, and she lit up.

Eliot gave the girl Courage.

There was this kid that Eliot used to babysit sometimes—he was just reaching the age where he wouldn’t need a babysitter, so Eliot was coming to terms with the idea that he wouldn’t spend time with him much anymore. He was a good kid—sweet, if a little energetic. He always seemed kind of lonely—always so excited when Eliot would come over, gushing about all the books he was reading or the games he was playing. Eliot mentioned the idea to the kid’s mother, and she thought it was wonderful.

Eliot gave the kid Wendy.

There was an older man who worked at the bakery Eliot like to go to, when no one was around to see him admiring the pretty cakes. The man was kind, often offering Eliot free tastes when he knew that Eliot couldn’t buy anything. He’d even offered to let Eliot work there—which, God, Eliot would _kill_ to do, if his father wouldn’t kill him for even suggesting such a thing.

He mentioned the kittens to the man, and the man smiled sadly, telling him the story of the cat used to have, the one he’d rescued from a river when he was a kid.

Eliot gave him Simba.

And Eliot had this teacher at school. She was patient with him, and always kind, and observant. She seemed to know about his background, and about _him._ He wondered if she _knew_ about him, because he—well, he thought he _knew_ about her, too. About why she was one of the only teachers without a wedding ring. Why the other teachers didn’t seem to talk to her much. Why she spent so much time reading in the library by herself.

Eliot brought up _The Scarlet Letter_ to her first—earning a skeptical look and an amused _you know, Eliot, the midterm is over—you don’t have to pretend you read the book anymore._ He laughed airily, like his heart didn’t ache over this, and mentioned the beautiful cat who he’d named Hester.

His teacher softened immediately. And he brought her Hester that weekend.

 

As for Viola, Eliot felt she could only ever be his cat. Maybe it was a little selfish of him, to not try to find her a place like the rest of them, but Eliot couldn’t bear to part with her. The first night, after he’d given Hester to his teacher, Eliot snuck Viola into his bedroom after everyone else had gone to sleep.

Eliot, for all his fighting with his parents, very rarely blatantly broke their rules like this. He explained very firmly to Viola that they could _not_ know that she was there. She’d have to be very quiet and careful.

She just gazed at him with those round, intelligent eyes and he really could believe that she understood every word he was saying.

His parents never did see her in the house.

They had quite a good arrangement.

Eliot left his window open all the time, for years. Just open enough for Viola to slip in and out. She was there most nights, though not every single one. She was certainly there for the nights that mattered.

The nights when his father drank too much. The nights when his mother told him all her _plans_ for the woman he’d someday marry. The nights when his brothers made casual, callous jokes about the one openly gay kid at their school.

The nights when Eliot felt alone, truly alone, in this awful place where he knew at his core he didn’t belong.

Viola was there for all of it. With her steady gaze, and her strange, quiet meow. Her calm presence. She was a constant in his tense teenage years, as his brothers either moved out or stayed, and either way came with its own special, painful issues. As his father seemed to hate him more and more with every passing day. As his hands got calloused from the farm work he dreaded.

Though it all, Viola was there. He’d get back to his room, moving his desk chair in front of the door since there was no lock, and breathe a sigh of heavy relief, as he’d be greeted by that single meow and he’d stroke her cheek, feeling the pain and anxiety and desperation fade into her soft fur.

She was there for all of it. Until one day, as it happens with the animals you love in childhood, she wasn’t.

 

When Eliot arrived at Brakebills, feeling less than brave and very, very alone, he just barely managed to force himself to stride through campus with his chin up. He wasn’t going to let anyone see how uncertain he felt, in these new clothes he’d decided to rebrand himself with, and all of this product in his hair that would’ve gotten him cussed out back at home.

This was the new him, and screw anyone who didn’t like it. He steeled himself, allowing the façade to close in around him. For once in his life, Eliot was going to be able to really decide what people were permitted to see.

There was only one small hitch in his plan to be unknowable, really. Almost immediately, outside of his first class, he ran into this small, beautiful girl, with the type of armor he recognized, and his entire persona fell away for a split second.

Her eyes looked so familiar. Intelligent and steady. They looked a lot like Viola’s, he realized.

It was strange. Just like that, he felt a little safer.  


End file.
